All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary
by Meredith A. Jones
Summary: Sequel, The Playwright. The boys are growing up, & James may be too, what with his new play, & having to once again confront love. If you read Playwright, you'll like this one! A few new romances come to play, & light angst will follow.
1. The Playwright

All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary  
Chapter 1  
The Playwright

Disclaimer: I own nothing which Miramax owns, but only my ideas for the characters to get scrambled up in. I do not own J.M. Barrie either, or his history or life stories.

THE FOLLOWING IS VERY IMPORTANT!

Author's Note: I'm back, you're back, we're all back! I hope that a sequel isn't much of a burden to you, but I really do think you'll enjoy this one as well, if not, more. Only 3 people have known my title until now, when I have released it. Those people are my parents and my hopefully soon-to-be illustrator! That's right, _Playwright_ gets an illustrator. If she accepts, illustrations will be posted on my **_LiveJournal Community _**which is located at The username of the community is jamesmbarrie. _You will need this community address for this story! _I won't be rambling on in Author's Notes like this, and I won't be giving review replies within chapters! My favorite questions and replies will be posted in the community, and all others (including favorites) will be emailed to the questioner if email is provided. So I do ask of you to please provide an email with your anonymous reviews, or email me so I know your email and can contact you. And _please _feel free to **join the community **if you have an LJ username! I would like more members! So now that the technical stuff is over with, you may now go on to the story! Enjoy!  
Love always, MJ xox

**BARRIEFACT: **James did indeed meet the Davies boys in Kensington Gardens, but only Jack and George, yet he did not meet Sylvia there. He had met her instead at a dinner party, and when the two got to talking, Sylvia discovered that this was the man who she had heard so much about from the boys' nanny, Mary. He was the man who wiggled his ears, did "magic tricks with his eyebrows" and told stories of fairies, murders, pirates, and treasure to her boys.

Inside: Two stories

OoOoO

_May 3rd, 1905 - Tuesday_

"A button."

"He thinks a kiss is a button?"

"Is he some sort of fool?"

"No, no," James replied patiently, "he believes it to be a kiss - it's symbolic of a kiss. Anything is true if you believe in it faithfully."

"What about Tinkerbell?"

"Tinkerbell is a fairy," Charles said, triumphantly. He put an arm around James, who also smiled. The gaggle of reporters before them scratched away on their pads and whispered and muttered among themselves, comparing notes at a wasp-like speed. The scratching of pens and the hurried din combined made them all, indeed, sound very much like a swarm of anxious bees.

The Easter performance of _Peter Pan_ had been an enormous success. So much that Charles and James, the pair of theater rats, had decided to keep the play running. Charles took a lease on another theater on the opposite end of the city to move it to, though, as they would be starting rehearsals soon for _The Man With Music On His Face _at the _Duke of York's._ The letters for the new members had only just been sent out and already people had begun to approach James and Charles requesting tickets.

James had gotten a phone call the day prior to "feeding hour at the city zoo" (as Charles had called the present promotional at the _Duke of York's _during a recent chat between the two) from Mary, who stuttered her way through a thank you for his casting choice. James merely offered an unceremonious (but half-polite) "you're welcome" and worked soon afterwards to end the conversation. He then spent the remainder of the day cursing, rather than praising himself like Mary had.

Charles, on the other hand, had been spending more and more time in his office waiting for telephone calls. He stared across the room at the large bulky contraption that was the era's "hi-technology" communication device, sitting on a table against the wall opposite to him for most of the day. Once it rang, he'd rise from his comfortable desk chair, shake his head, each time muttering the word: "amateurs," and answer the phone, only to hear another complaint from someone who had received his script and had found upon the pages of it that their part only consisted of ten words, or less; in which case resulted on about a dozen pleading telephone calls from Charles's end.

James had remained in contact with Mrs. Elisa Babcock, and had asked her once (politely, of course, for he wasn't that kind of man) for his housekeepers (Sarah Deardren and Emma Padell) to be back in his "possession," if you will, and offered her a way of going about getting her own. She accepted, and Sarah and Emma moved out the very next day and returned to Emma duMaurier's house. It was very nice to have them back, as James had already had an incident with a turkey once and since then had given up on cooking dinner for the boys. The five had eaten out every night, which had caused much chaos every night come supper time.

Presently, the playwright kicked his feet so that his heels thumped on the side of the stage. He felt that his smile would soon imprint itself into his face so that he was permanently stuck in such a way. Charles didn't feel the same way, though. He was a man for show. He made it look like he was having the time of his life sitting on the _Duke of York's _stage in front of a house teeming with newspaper reporters. And, honestly, he was. Any advertising for his partner's hit play that would end in a full pocket on his part was the best way in the world to spend a morning.

"...And this little devil here, by george - small build, big imagination, eh, fellas?" James gave an uncomfortable smile and Charles squeezed his shoulders once more as the camera near the front of the group went off for a fourth time.

"I'm not that small, Charles," James said thickly, putting on his hat, as the two left the theater at last. The playwright had had to hear every pun and tease about his height for his entire life, and Charles wasn't one to leave it alone.

"Quiet, James, you're five feet tall. It was only a friendly joke."

James gave up. There was no convincing Charles of anything without an argument, and he didn't want one at the moment - he was far too tired. "Alright, Charles, where do you want to go for lunch? I'm treating today."

"Aw, that's very sweet, but I've put you through enough nonsense. I owe you." Charles checked his watch. "There isn't much else open..."

"Lixon's, then."

"Lixon's it is. Hey, listen, James, I want you to remind me why I thought an open casting call would be a good thing for us at this time in our game."

"Lack of talent," James supplied sardonically.

"Well, I'll tell you, there is a lack of talent in this city. London has been stripped of all creativity save for you and Arthur Doyle."

"And you, of course," the playwright said. Charles didn't catch the sarcasm.

"And me, yes. I wish you would have convinced me that it was a bad idea. The phone has been ringing off the hook for days."

"Complaints?"

"Complaints, concerns, requests for different roles. It's a racket. Disturbing the peace. Infringing upon my rights to privacy. Disquieting my everyday goings-on."

"I'm sure." James smiled to himself, and caught Charles's gaze out of the corner of his eye. The producer frowned and looked away from his friend.

"You make me sad, James."

"Why do I make you sad?"

"You could care less about all of this, couldn't you?"

James sighed and looked around his surroundings, watching the town go about its activities. "There are only more important things in the world, Charles. It's not that I don't care. If they're unhappy with their part, then it's their problem. We've offered them a chance to be on the London stage. Are we all casted?"

"All but the shopkeeper. No one in the whole of London feels that they're important enough to the performance if they utter the words: "Good morning, Mr. Barber." It sickens me."

"We'll find someone who will."

It was Charles's turn to sigh. "You're a good man, James."

The playwright smirked. "One minute I make you sad, and the next minute I'm a good man."

Lixon's was as busy as it usually was, but the little table in the corner of the cafe at which James and Charles sat regularly, was vacant. The heavy smells of coffee that had wound itself around the chair legs and had seeped into every thread of the couches that sat near the windows leaked out into the air that filled the restaurant. Customers filled nearly every seat, each having a drink on his table. Most were seated with friends, except for a man in the darkest part of the room, who had two tall stacks of paper with him and a pen, and looked very busy, like he did not want to be bothered. Charles and James took their seats at their table, and got comfortable.

As James looked around the room, he noticed that the restaurant wasn't packed, like the last time he had been there to meet with Charles back in December, before they had started rehearsals for _Peter Pan _at Easter. There wasn't a sea of people that snaked through every free aisle and space. It was just...pleasantly busy. And James, who loved people where ever he went, was indeed pleased with this additional company.

Charles removed his hat and set it next to his and James's canes, which were left leaning behind James, in the corner. The playwright then removed his own, and left it in his lap. The two proceeded to order drinks (Charles, a scotch, and James, a glass of ice water) and then the producer rubbed his hands together, initiating conversation.

"I've decided not to go back to New York for a while. I returned my train tickets and I returned my tickets for the ship yesterday, and I'm here to stay."

"Cheers," James offered, raising his newly arrived water glass and allowing it to collide with Charles's one of scotch.

"Yes, things are good here, there's not much reason to go back just yet; and what with _Peter Pan _being a success again, and your new play starting soon, there really isn't any at all." Charles went off into a reverie for a moment, and James nodded, looking up at the black ceiling above his head. He looked over at the counter next and watched someone spill out their entire change purse on the counter and slowly, but surely, count up each penny and shilling to pay for his cup of coffee. The man gathered up his things and shoved past the line at the counter and out the door. The bell that swung against the glass when the door was disturbed seemed to wake Charles. He looked at James, who turned back to his friend, took a sip of water, and smirked.

"How did you like those reporters today - asking me every question that would have been answered if they'd seen the show?"

"Pitiful," Charles retorted immediately. "Absolutely pitiful. They'll go tonight or tomorrow night to put a review in with their article, either praise it or bash it, and await the next play. Then, they'll be blown away by Mary and Gerald, and...we'll see what happens then." The producer took a drink and thought aloud. "Gerald certainly is going to be busy with rehearsals every day and performances three times a week..."

"I do hope we did the right thing casting Mary as Harriet. Gerald will be a wonderful George, I'm sure of it, and that Barty fellow seems to be keen on Zinschiel's role, but I'm still not positive about Mary," James said, watching the ice cubes float around his flass.

"I'm sure she'll be fine," Charles said. "She's a wonderful actress, I remember going to one of her plays with you before the two of you were married. I wouldn't be worried too much."

"How do you know she'll be fine? This is a different play - it's my play! How do you know?"

Charles grinned and chuckled. "Easy enough question to answer. You trust me, James."

OoOoO

"Shh - quiet, everybody!"

"Quiet, he'll hear us!"

"Michael, move your foot."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean t - "

"_Shh!_"

James opened the door to Emma's old home and complete darkness met his eyes. When he reached for the switch, though, a hand grabbed his firmly, then thrusted it away from the wall, making him jump. A candle alighted in front of his nose, and George appeared standing before him, his face set in a serious way, holding the candle still in front of him. The playwright glanced around at all four of the boys, who were dressed in old brown colored bed sheets and feathers, and realized what all of this was: a game; a sort of ceremony. He set his face the same way, and allowed Peter to adorn him with a broad flowered hat which was topped with a feathery stuffed bird between two rather large purple silk flowers. Michael and Jack both stifled giggles, but George, James, and Peter remained in a state of all seriousness.

George lit Jack's candle, and Jack, in turn, lit Peter's. Then, the party proceeded into the equally dark parlor, where Sarah and Emma were holding candles and standing on either side of the piano, on top of which a single couch pillow sat. Sarah and Emma promptly set their candles down on the piano and helped George and Jack to lift the stone-still James up and to place him atop the ugly pillow. Peter then moved in front of James, handed him his candle, and drew his journal. When the playwright looked into the boy's eyes, he could tell that he wanted him to take it from him. And so, carefully, he did. Peter smiled and waited for James to flip the cover open to see the contents, and then left the room at the head of a straight line consisting of Michael, Jack, George, Emma, and Sarah.

James removed the hat from his head, and held the candle closer to the words that appeared to be printed so carefully onto the page. _The Playwright: The Escapades of Mr. James Matthew Barrie. _He smiled and began to flip through the book, and saw that this story was indeed very carefully constructed. Clearly this was not the first the first draft. The words had been edited very many times for the sake of perfection. For every time someone re-copies a set of prose, it is changed, and this handwriting was the neatest; and each letter was displayed in its most intricate design, so that the ink from the standard fountain pen had been used in such a way that the words looked as if in reality they had been printed professionally by machine.

James closed the leather volume gently and stared for a long time at its cover, lost in thought, about this gesture, and about the fact that the boy who had given him inspiration, had been inspired by him.

Author's Note: I am now praying for and awaiting reviews - let me know you love me, and I'll post chapter 2! I'm going with 5 reviews for a new chapter again. Thanks, guys! You have no idea how much I love you all!

And as another note, you have read in the summary that light angst will be present as well as romances. There will be others, as well as a very, very light James/OC. Do not let this lose your attention, I won't write it out of character, you can all trust me there.


	2. The Secret and the Invitation

All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary  
Chapter 2  
The Secret and the Invitation

Author's Note: An enjoyable chapter, I suppose. It had another part, but had I added it, this would be far too long, so that part's going into chapter 3. See, when the story's just starting out, nothing's too exciting because it's going to take a while for me to set everything up, and I think this is the most difficult stage. But you're starting to see what's being set up, and while reading the explanation chapters may be tedious, think about the products of what's been set up already. Just a tip to you if you're thinking that this isn't worthwhile to read.

I want to add a thank you to Aimee and Danny (Danielle) for checking over my Scots after it was written to make sure I got it all right. They're my Scottish connection...both live in Scotland and agreed to help me out. So, thanks, guys!

In other news, I will be posting a one-shot soon that I started today, so be on the lookout and feel free to drop by and send me a review or two. Now, enjoy chapter 2. xox Luv, MJ

**BARRIEFACT: **It was discovered after the incident that Charles Frohman had said, while the _Lusitania _was sinking: (the boat which was bombed during WWI, and he was killed on) "Why fear death? It is the greatest adventure in life."

Inside: Two stories and a flashback (in which is the first of many appearances of the Scots tongue - visit my LiveJournal community for the link to a dictionary, if needed.)

OoOoO

_Wednesday_

"I would like you to read it."

James smiled at Peter. "I would like to read it," he said, "I would very much like to."

Peter smiled back, his eyes smiling along with his mouth. "Thank you."

James nodded. "Good boy. Now go and get your cap and call your brothers downstairs, please." Peter obeyed immediately and raced up the stairs.

School was a very complicated affair. Firstly, James hated to let his boys leave him. In the old days, that would leave him alone with Emma du Maurier. Before that, it would leave him alone, his only company being his journal, Porthos, Emma, and Sarah. Second, James had been trying to be a good father for the last few weeks, but couldn't seem to get a hold on mastering some fatherly acts. He had tried, once, to prepare the boys' lunches, but he hadn't the faintest idea of what to make, and found out later that he couldn't cook anything for all the money in London before Sarah and Emma came back, when he cooked a turkey wrong. So when they did return, Emma asked him if he'd like her to make the lunches from then on. James said no at the time, but later gave in, and allowed her to prepare the four of them every night before school, so that all James had to do was take them from the kitchen in the morning, and distribute them to each of the children before they left the house.

So, today being no different, when all four boys returned to the foyer, and formed a line shoulder to shoulder, James stepped to each one and dropped first a sandwich, then a banana, and lastly, a container of milk, into each of their lunch sacks. After lunch was handed out, the four retrieved their schoolbags and were out of the door. George was reminded by James, as he was every day, to be careful on the way to the academy and that he was responsible for his three brothers' safety at that time. George nodded and waved as James closed the door. As he looked around then, and listened to the silence, he found that he was now unsure of what to do with himself. So after a few moments of consequence-less thinking, he sighed and went up to his study, where he closed the door and took a seat at his desk, the top of which was invisible to the eye because of the limitless ocean of papers scattered over every once visible corner of wood.

He moved a few papers and extracted his pipe from the pile, which he always kept filled in case of emergency, and a box of matches which he now lit it with. Setting it in his teeth, he turned his chair toward the window to look out. He'd decided to write to pass the time, as he so often did, but his mind was blank for ideas. So, instead, he thought back, and his inspiration - hungry mind wandered deep into his memories and halted unexpectedly, as would a carriage if the horse pulling it stopped abruptly in front of a building in the middle of the road...

_"Margaret Ogilvy, are you there?"_

_"Quiet, James, she may be sleeping."_

_"Yes, I'm here," Margaret called back from her bedroom. James turned to his sisters._

_"If she was sleeping, Jane Ann, she would nae ha' answered, do ye agree?" Sarah giggled, but Jane Ann, greatly unimpressed, pushed her younger brother toward the door from which the voice had emitted moments earlier._

_"Oh, gang awa," she said. "And here's your journal." She shoved a tattered black leather notebook into his arms and pushed him once more. James walked into the dark room slowly and silently, and said again, "Margaret Ogilvy, are you there?"_

_"Yes, I'm here," she answered again._

_"Margaret Ogilvy," James whispered a last time, and paused, "Do you want to get out of bed?"_

_"I dinna."_

_"You don't?"_

_"I dinna want to, Jimmy," she said insistently. James asked this every time he went to visit his mother at her bed, and every time, Margaret had replied in the same way: "I dinna, I winna, Jimmy."_

_"There can on'y be twa things tha get me oot o' bed," she said. James nodded, but didn't respond. He knew both reasons. One was David. As long as David was gone, Margaret wouldn't let herself rise from her bed. The other was that the doctor would "gae awa frae here furever": another phrase she repeated daily._

_The boy, James sat on his mother's bed and took out his journal. Margaret saw the book, but didn't smile, as she used to when James read to her, so he imagined the smile, that, now, he was sure, would make her look old, even though she really wasn't. The loss of her son had hastened her aging, and now the young, beautiful, fresh face of James's mother, was now wrinkled, tired, and worn._

_"There i'nt much mair in this warld, Jimmy, like writing sic as yers, you ken," she said quietly. James smiled to himself, but wished she'd said this before to him, while he was ignored, and David got most of her attention._

_"You been studying your English, Jimmy?"_

_"Yes."_

_"And wha hae you wri'en in English?"_

_"It i'nt finished yet."_

_"I see. Weel, I didna prepare onything fur you, but once your story's finished, syne you can read to me." Margaret closed her eyes and folded her hands, resting them atop her bosom. James took this chance to look toward the door to see Sara and Jane Ann listening to and watching the happenings inside of the bedroom, intently. He looked back at his mother._

_"I'll read to you, Mither."_

_"Tha wid be nice," she answered, with a sigh. James bit his lip, thinking, and then smiled suddenly._

_"Watch, Mither!" he cried. Margaret opened her eyes and watched her boy as he set down his journal and crawled to the end of the bed where the wall stood. He went down on his back and kicked his legs in the air._

_"What are you doing, James?" James didn't answer, but instead maneuvered himself so that his back was flat against the wall, his feet free in the air, and his head creating a crater in the bed. Margaret smiled, and put her hand to her mouth. James looked at her upside down, and the mistress laughed at him._

_"You're laughing now, Mither?" And Margaret did laugh. She laughed and cried, and laughed still some more, lying her head back on her pillow and closing her eyes._

_"James, get down frae there!" she managed to cry. So James rolled down and picked up his journal, opening it to a blank page._

_"Wha is tha, James?" she asked, her face becoming frightened again. "Something fur the doctor, I hope no. Is it?"_

_"Na, Mither, it's nothing. It's no fur the doctor," he answered, and walked to the door, making a mark on the page as he left and smiling to himself._

There was a knock at the door, and James remembered he was still in his study, rather than in the old house in Kirriemuir. He continued to stare out the window, unaware that what had awoken him from his daydream was the sound of his door. The sound came again, and he responded to it then.

"Er - come in," he said finally. The door opened slowly and Sarah's nose poked in. She stepped into the room, her arms clasped to her chest protectively.

"You wished to see me?" James questioned kindly.

"Yes," Sarah said. James smiled, and she seemed to loosen her arms, and gave a small smile in return. The idea of James Barrie would be one to make a person nervous or anxious, because of his great presence (despite his small stature) and importance, but that idea was deceiving. Once you were near him and saw the gentle smile that made its appearance so frequently on his face, you knew that the conversation you would have with him would not be tense, but calm and light, like talking to a close friend. But Sarah still wasn't completely at ease. She stepped closer to James's desk and finally ceased choking her treasure, setting it on his desk. She didn't completely let go of it, though, until her eyes met his and she realized that she could trust him. He looked down at what her hand had just abandoned, and smiled.

"What is this, Sarah?" he asked, and pulled it closer to him, for he knew she would attempt to take it back again; and from reading the look on her face, he found that his assumption had been correct. She sported a pair of deep scarlet cheeks at the sight of his smile, and squirmed in her place.

"I wrote this, Mr. Barrie," she said. James looked up at her, that lovely smile still on his face, and then opened up the notebook, which he found contained several pages of cleanly written prose, all in cursive. He was immediately reminded of Peter's story, and that he now had this to read as well as that.

James looked back up to his housekeeper. "Why did you not tell me you enjoyed writing, Sarah?"

She hesitated. He had used her name. "I didn't want you to think me a fool," she replied quietly after her moment of silence.

"Why would I think you a fool?" he wondered, raising his eyebrows. But Sarah didn't answer. Of course she couldn't tell him the truth: that she was sure that a great writer of his sort would see himself as superior to an almost non-existent (and certainly less dominant) one.

Obviously, knowing James, this was most certainly in no way true; though Sarah wasn't completely sure of this. She only knew him as the world-renowned, and admired playwright who had the magical, sparkling smile that made you feel the need of smiling back, no matter what the circumstances, and that no one was meant for any reason, to frown even once in their entire span on Earth. She knew him as the man who had the mastery over words as did (and may have rivaled) the Ancient Egyptians over the stone blocks used to construct the pyramids.

But, again, that is not all he was.

She decided, finally, to tell the truth. "Most writers, Mr. Barrie, wouldn't accept any writing from someone of a lower denomination than he - especially from a woman - especially from a servant."

"I am not most writers. And as far as I'm concerned, you are not a servant - rather a housekeeper. It's a much less evil sounding word."

"I only thought you wouldn't recognize me for my work because of who I am." James was inwardly disappointed in this assumption once he realized her predicament. It must have showed on his face as well, for she looked away. The two had been living together for a very long time, since a year after James had settled in London, when he realized that he desperately needed a housekeeper. In his letters to his mother, he'd describe his problems, and she'd write back every time advising him to hire a housekeeper. _"You an' I lived thegither wae Jean fur aboot three years, an ya ken we got along weel - better wae her, than wi ou." _and James would always reply, _"I haven't the money, mother. I know that you know that." _She'd respond, _"I send you funds once a month. I thocht you were buying useful things wi them. Whaur hae they gone?" _And he'd again reply, _"Your funds are enough to buy me food and keep the rent, and that's all. I will repeat that I am very much grateful for the money you sent me for the house." "A guid author needs a guid hoose," _she'd say. He'd thank her once more and agree, and then her next letter would abandon the subject altogether: _"'Ow 'as yer writin been? I see yer English 'as improved. Why hae ya no come tae visit yer hame? I shid like tae hear ma bairn's words oo of his own mooth, ya ken. Yer mither c'n barely read her bairn's English on her own, anyway."_

"Don't look at me in that way, Mr. Barrie," Sarah said, taking a step back, "You make me feel so very nervous." She had no right to order her master to do anything, but James didn't care what the proper etiquette was in the relationship between a man and his servant, because he thought whatever it was, was foolish. A housekeeper was as human as any other woman, and deserved not to be treated unfairly, or different from any other human being. So, he set his face in a more serious manner obediently, closed the book, and set his palm on the cover of it, lest she try again to swipe it from him.

"I will read it, and I will take very good care of it," he promised, the book acting as a bible for which to swear on. It was good enough for Sarah, who honestly trusted her master now. She managed a smile, and then took on a look like she was immensely proud of herself.

"May I leave now, Mr. Barrie?" she requested confidently.

"Yes, you may," James answered, and smiled after her until she closed the door, at which time he opened his journal, took pen in hand, and began to write.

The phone began to ring about a half an hour after Sarah left James's study, (which was, indeed, still separate from his bedroom. He had taken an empty room for himself that had large windows lining a circular wall. The sun shone in the daytime, and James wrote by candlelight at night) and he looked up from his writing, listening. It was usually Charles, and this is why James listened so hard. He was never prepared for anything his partner threw at him, which he tended to heave at the last minute. But at least if he listened, as he did, he could brace himself for something he might have to tap on his brain's door for, to awaken it from its idleness, or to bring it back from the fictional world, to the seriousness of reality.

Two rings, and he heard Emma answer, set the phone on the table, and scamper up the stairs to appear in James's doorway, all in less than a minute's time. And when she spoke, he found that it wasn't Charles, but that little fist rapped on his brain anyway.

"Mistress Barrie is on the line for you, Mr. Barrie," she said. James knit his eyebrows and stood, thanking Emma as he left the room. She smiled at Sarah's book next to her master's journal on his desk, and followed him to the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello, James. How are you?"

"Fine," he answered suspiciously. "Did you need something? Perhaps a question on the script? If you need assistance with the Scotch - "

"I know how to read and pronounce Scotch, but thank you," Mary said patiently. James's heart dropped. He had hoped very much that it was a question on the Scotch. The answers wouldn't require as much thought.

"Yes, of course. Then, you won't have any trouble."

"No, I won't. I've been in plays set in Scotland," she reminded kindly.

"Ah, yes. Of course you have. Now, you had a question...?"

"Yes, yes. I wanted to invite you somewhere."

"Go on," he urged cautiously.

"Well, Gilbert," James shivered and felt a fist clench slightly at the sound of the name; he did not notice Emma still standing near him, "wanted to invite you boating with us during the summer sometime. As sort of a...celebration for your play, and...my being in your play."

"Boating," James repeated slowly, after a slight hesitation. He tried to sound intrigued.

"We'll find a date good for you. God knows the number of affairs you're committed to attend to."

"Yes, er - the boys - "

"You may bring the boys. Yes, bring the boys. They've probably not been boating before." James stammered, but Mary continued to speak. "I know, James, you may be uncomfortable with this, but i assure you - don't be. After all, we will be spending more time together with your play and all."

"Right. Yes. Yes, that's true. Eh - yes. My answer is 'yes.' I'll call you back tomorrow to - confirm. And then we can set up a date."

"Wonderful, that sounds wonderful. Thank you, James," Mary said, sounding honestly glad. James wanted to reply, but when he moved his mouth, nothing passed his lips, to go into the microphone and be sent into his ex-spouse's finely primped ear.

"I'll be talking to you later, then," she said.

"Alright, goodbye."

"Goodbye." Mary hung up first, but James merely stood dumbly in his place, and looked at Emma, who smiled and went into the kitchen. But James remained at the telephone. He disconnected the line quickly and dialed again. Someone answered after the third ring.

"_Duke of York's."_

"Charles, I need to speak with you."

OoOoO

Peter had his stack of books in front of his journal, and was scribbling away on it feverishly. His teacher, Mrs. Harper, was at the chalkboard, giving the class math problems to do, but he had her blocked out and was off in another world. The problems were for homework, so he planned to copy them down at the end of class and do them later.

Jack wasn't giving Mrs. Harper his attention, either, but rather to a blonde haired girl in pigtails who was sitting two rows to his left. He took the note from the floor, opened it, smiled, and picked up his pencil to write back, but a ruler came down on his knuckles, which had been red for weeks now, and presently deepened their shade.

"Jack Davies, do pay attention _please. _My ruler is sure to break in half before the end of the year, I believe I am safe to swear it!" Mrs. Harper said, obviously frustrated. Several giggled, and when Jack looked at his friend, she gave him an adoring smile. Peter, however, when he caught Jack's eye, had paused from his writing, and was frowning at his brother. The moment he looked back down, Jack's hand flew up.

"Mrs. Harper, I believe Peter is not paying attention either," he squealed. Mrs. Harper only frowned and sat at her desk.

"That's two warnings for today, Mr. Davies," she said. Jack's shoulders dropped, and he took out a sheet of paper, but began to write back to the blonde haired girl instead, as soon as the teacher turned her head.

_Meet me at the flagpole  
after school. I'll get there  
early to send my brothers  
home._

He folded the note and tossed it across the ground to the pigtailed girl, and when she read it, she giggled and began to write back. Peter got up then to ask to go to the bathroom, and when he passed Jack's desk, rapped his older brother hard on the back of the head. Mrs. Harper had her eyes fixed in the opposite direction at the time.

Peter barely ever got caught.

"Psst...Jack." Jack turned his head, and saw that the girl had returned the nore. He smiled at the reply, and blushed. Apparently she had seen this, for she covered her mouth to quiet her giggling. Jack sat back in his chair and stared at the chalkboard with a smile for the remainder of class, when Mrs. Harper spotted him before the bell rang. Jack earned a detention, forcing him to change his flagpole meeting with Carolyn Mundette with a clenched fist.

OoOoO

Author's Note: No, the romance is not between James and Sarah - Sarah only likes James, he doesn't like her that way. That's all I have to say for now. Stay with me, some more things will be introduced, and chapter 4, the story will start - first rehearsal. Keep reading! And review, please, I love you guys.


	3. A Rock And A Hard Place

All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary  
Chapter 3  
A Rock And A Hard Place

Author's Note: Readers who love longer chapters will most definitely love this. I enjoyed writing this chapter very much - intense and fun and funny and good. It's my birthday on Tuesday, and I'm most definitely not going to release shite so close to my birthday, so here's a fun chapter! Enjoy!

**BARRIEFACT: **J.M. Barrie was good friends with George Bernard Shaw, who was said to have despised James's pipe smoking. Very, very, much. He was also a good friend of H.G. Wells.

_Inside: _2 stories, and 2 conflicts.

OoOoO

_Still Wednesday, The 4th of May, 1905_

Charles found James on his park bench, but he was unaccompanied by his journal - only by his dog. The playwright moved over once he saw his friend, and immediately after he sat down, Charles began to talk.

"Alright, what's the matter, James?" he demanded quickly. He looked, to James, like a small boy fantasizing to his mother about purchasing a puppy, or a new toy. This, however, was not the first time the playwright had seen this expression on his best friend's face.

"Mary."

"What about her?"

"She called me today."

"Did she?" Charles raised his eyebrows. "Was she, by any chance, hoping to change her part?"

"Not at all," he said. "She's estatic about the role. And, you must remember, she would have called you for that," he added remorsefully, but the producer snorted.

"Not necessarily," he muttered.

James ignored this.

"She called to invite me boating with her and Gilbert," he said, looking at his feet. Porthos had set his head on top of them.

"Why on Earth would she do that?" Frohman's brow furrowed.

"That's what I positively cannot fathom. Additionally, she said that the boys would be welcome to come as well as I."

"Really." Charles thought a moment. "She still likes you, you know. I can identify these things when they surface."

"She doesn't, Charles."

"She does."

James frowned. "I do not wish to carry on this discussion with you." Charles mocked his friend, by straightening his back against the bench snobbishly. He only recieved a glare in return, so he scratched his own neck apologetically.

"Do you not trust me?" he said.

"No, no, just - never mind."

"So, you'll have to go boating, then."

James nodded, but he looked straight at Charles's right ear, and the producer, though having not turned his head, could tell his partner's eyes were on him.

"James, do not continue to speak, please," he said plainly, but the meaning was clear. He knew the playwright had gotten an idea. One of which, would almost surely involve him.

"Come with me."

Charles had begun to shake his head long before James had voiced his idea. And the more he did, and the less he answered, his friend would repeat his phrase more insistently. Finally, Charles decided to answer.

"No, James, I am not going with you," he said simply.

"I need you, Charles!"

"If you ask me, I really don't think you should go at all. Decline. Tell her 'no.' That's all I have to say on the matter." Charles began to rise, but he was almost instantly shoved back down.

"I'm not declining. I want to see what Mary's up to. Why does she think it would be something normal to do, to invite me on Gilbert's boat? (Assuming it's Gilbert's - but, of course, Mary wouldn't own a boat.)"

"That's what's strange about it - a woman just doesn't call her former husband out of the wide blue one day, like nothing's wrong with it, and ask him to go on an outing with her, and her new husband! It just isn't done, James, it's not _right!_"

"That's precisely why I want to go!"

Charles thought about his opinion, and James's response, and eyed his friend suspiciously."Are you drunk, James?"

The playwright stiffened. "You know I wouldn't be. And that's not what I meant. I meant that that's why I want to go: because it's strange, and I want to find out - Charles!" The producer had stood again, only to find himself on the bench once more.

"She still likes you, it's as simple as that. She's realized the error of her ways, and misses you."

"She may, and I won't know that for sure, unless I go to find out."

"Go ahead, what do you need me there for?"

"I'm not going alone!"

"You have the boys." Charles was up, Charles was down. By this time, Porthos, who had gotten worried that his ears would be trampled on, had moved a safe distance away from the argument.

"I need _you, _Charles! I'll - I'll take back my play," he said confidently.

"No," the producer said, disbelieving, a smile coming to his face. But this only made James more serious.

"I will - all of the scripts and notes and lists and figures. All of it."

"I have the figures, James," Charles said, amused.

"Well, everything but the figures, I'll take away." He paused. "Please, Charles."

The producer shook his head tiredly. "Though I very much doubt that you, James Barrie, the James Barrie I have known for years, would never in a thousand of those years go as far as to take a play from the _Duke of York's Theatre, _I'll go."

"You will?"

"Yes, I'll go on your stupid boating trip."

"Thank you, Charles! Thank you! Now, you won't back out, will you?" He shook his finger in Frohman's face sternly.

"No, _mother, _for the sanity of the both of us, no."

James could have hugged his best friend, but said, instead, "You may leave now."

"I do not need permission." Charles huffed, got up, looked at James, and shook his head a last time. He took his cane, straightened his hat, turned, and left.

"Damned Scots," he muttered to himself.

OoOoO

_Thursday, May 5th_

A few hours after James was left to himself, by the boys, the next morning, he found Charles on his doorstep, equipped with a thick stack of paper, a fixed brow, and a look of concern in the whiskers of his mustache and beard. He thrust the papers to James and invited himself inside, closing the door firmly behind him. They sat around afterwards discussing budgets and costumes and sets and salaries, up until the boys came home, when they found Charles and their Uncle Jim in James's den, looking as if they had just finished running around the whole of London, and back.

"Uncle Jim," said George tentatively.

"Hello, boys," he answered, rubbing his forehead.

"Can I take them to the park?"

James looked at Peter, Michael, and Jack. "We'll come with you, George," he said, standing up and piling up Charles's papers, and setting them atop another unbalanced mountain of papers. Charles began to gather his to bring with them, but his partner stopped him, and told him that they'd continue at the later date. The producer obeyed, which was unusual, and joined the family to go to the park. James called his dog and fastened him on his black leather leash, and got his hat and cane from the foyer.

Kensington Gardens in the Spring looked like Heaven on Earth. The trees were all in bloom, and giving a pleasant storm of pink and white petals to whomever passed beneath their branches, when the breeze startled them. Children were out playing games, some with toys in their hands, and their parents were to be seen sitting on benches reading or just plain listening to the soft din of nature.

A fountain stood a ways away from James's regular bench along the path, and this is now where Charles, James, and the four Davies boys strolled. During the Summer, young boys would (much to their parents' displeasure and distress) jump into and splash around in the fountain, sometimes dragging in young unsuspecting girls who often sat on the cold, smooth, stone edge with their studies or books, by their many skirts. James had never seen his boys in the fountain, and he hoped very much that he could this summer. He also secretly wished he could hop in with them, but that was, sadly, not up for any kind of questioning.

James let the boys go and play, and he and Charles walked around the fountain. Both men were silent for a long time, until Charles spoke up.

"First rehearsal tomorrow, eh?"

The playwright nodded, pretending that he had known - though he had, in truth, forgotten. He remembered now that he thought that it was pointless to start rehearsals on a Friday, rather than on a Monday or Tuesday. The actors were likely to come to rehearsal, have their weekend, and come back the following Monday having to start over.

"I hope all goes well. Ah - that reminds me, I have to call Mary to confirm that we're going boating..."

"Keep her on the edge of her pink, frilly, Gilbert Cannan - ridden seat: wait a few days to keep her wondering, don't mention it at rehearsals, and then bring it up when she'd least expect it. She'll have more of a pronounced reaction, then."

"You seem very fluent in the minds of women, Charles. May I inquire as to why?"

"I have my secrets," the producer responded, as if his best friend was prying into a place in which he kept something which no one, but he, should know about. James left it at that, and the two continued on in silence once more for a while.

"Your birthday's on Monday, you know," the producer said. Another thing James had forgotten. May the ninth. His own birthday.

"Of course I know. I am able to remember the date of my own birthday, thank you, Charles," he said defensively. Frohman smirked at James's sensitivity, and nodded.

"Have you planned anything yet?"

A third thing. "No, I haven't, actually."

"Well, I'll take you out to dinner, how's that? You pick where."

James thought it over, and nodded. "Yes, that would be nice, thank you. I'll have to send the boys to Em - " he stopped himself. Why had he said that? He'd lived with Emma before she had died. "Actually, I don't know where to send the boys to. We could all go out to dinner," he suggested.

Charles nodded. "Fair enough. The least I can do is to be agreeable, with your play being a hit and all. And it will be a hit - I can sense these things before they happen."

James remembered _Peter Pan. _"Of course, Charles, of course."

"Of course, of course." The producer raised his chin confidently.

"Uncle Jim!" James felt a hand grab the fist he was holding Porthos's leash in, and he stopped walking, to look down to see Michael. "The four of us would like you to come and play Tag with us." He looked at Charles. "Mr. Frohman may play, too, if he wishes to," he added respectfully. James smiled.

"_Tag, _James?" Charles said, intrigued, giving James an amused look underneath raised gray eyebrows, and then looking down at Michael with, rather, a polite grin. "No, thank you, Michael, I should like to watch this from the side."

James returned the look, but this one being out of frustration, and went with Michael to where his brothers were assembled.

George was chosen to be "It" first. He chased everyone around for a very long time; James noticed he wasn't putting as much effort and thought into the game as he had in previous instances. He James was, rather, a tactical player. He never came within the length of an arm of George, as the other boys did, and was dodging behind trees and swerving from the other players. He wasn't a fast runner, but agile and clever. Peter was a good player as well. He ran near James a lot, and was only close to being caught once. Jack, however, had to jump out of George's reach about ten times. And, as for Michael - the first game ended with his appointment to the "It" position. He covered his eyes immediately after, as though glad he had lost the game, and began to count loudly, pausing periodically to remember what Mrs. Stecks had taught him in school. James wiped his brow during the break, and turned his head when he heard Charles chuckling from the bench.

"Enjoying yourself, Charles?" he said.

"Oh, immensely. Is there any way your narrator in your play could drop his book and chase Zinschiel and Jacob around the stage so I might have the opportunity to witness this again?"

"Not a chance," James yelled, looking at Michael, who was almost finished. Charles chuckled again.

"One Hundred!" the little one bellowed (even though he had only counted to ten) and ran, arms thrashing the air, straight for James, who shot away instantly. Michael was giggling, his arms outstretched, and was - gaining on James. The playwright sped up, and dashed behind a large tree before a little hand could swipe his back. He caught his breath, and peeked out from behind his hiding place, watching Michael. He had begun to go after Jack now, but he, too, escaped. So the child turned to see his guardian, and changed his course when he spotted him, to go in that direction. James turned away and bolted forward. he ran a few yards before he looked back to see his pursuer, but seconds after, felt his body collide with something, which fell away from him, and knocked his feet out from under him in turn, when it did. He lay there for a moment, breathing hard, and trying to figure out what had just happened. He stood slowly, and found that he had ran into a woman. His heart sped up, as he was now thoroughly embarrassed.

"Oh, Dominie! I'm so sorry!" He held out his arm, and she took it, while holding her bonnet on her head.

"That's quite alright. I shouldn't have been reading and walking at once, anyway," she said, smiling, and picking up two books from the grass. James strained to see the titles on the covers, but only saw bits of them. He could tell, though, in an instant, their full titles. He cocked his head. She kept hers down, the brim of her bonnet covering her eyes. Loose strands of shining brown hair draped over her shoulders.

"_The Little Minister _and _Auld Licht Idylls. _Two novels about nearly the same thing - though one being written after the other."

"Yes, indeed. _Auld Licht Idylls _was written first," she responded, tapping the cover.

"May I ask which you are reading now?"

"_Auld - _" She gasped suddenly when she looked up. "Mr. Barrie! Do pardon me!" she said quickly, blushing. James had never seen a darker red on anyone's face before.

"No harm done. I was being chased by my - son. About...this high." He held up a hand, ad the woman laughed.

"Molly," she said, shifting the books to the crook of the opposite arm, and extended a newly freed gloved hand in his direction. He reached for it, when his own hand was intercepted by someone else's.

"Charles Frohman." Charles took her hand in the hand that wasn't holding his partner's dog's leash, and kissed it. She looked from James, to his friend, confused. James awkwardly set his hand back to his side.

"This is my partner, Mr. Froh - " James exhaled, having been interrupted. Charles had begun to jabber ceaselessly to the woman, so he decided to say that he had to go, and turned the opposite way, back to the game. Charles's eyes followed his friend, and he finally stopped talking once he was out of earshot. Then, he looked at Molly, and he smiled.

OoOoO

James had just rounded up the boys and had closed his journal, when he caught a glance at Charles, who was still talking with the woman, Molly. He watched the two for a while, not fully conscious of Michael tugging on his jacket.. Charles finally tipped his hat toward her, tucked something into his own jacket pocket, and began to walk back toward James.

"What was that about, Charles?" he asked.

"Uncle Jim!"

"Hang on, Michael."

Charles smiled at Michael, then at James. "Let's go, James," he said, and handed Porthos's leash back to his owner. The party of six then began walking to the path, which led to the park entrance, and then Michael's tugging began again.

"_Uncle Jim!" _he whined louder.

"Not yet, Michael. Please be patient," James said, grabbed little Michael's hand to keep him from disturbing his jacket anymore, and looked back at Charles. "What were you talking to that woman about?"

Charles was grinning broadly, and after a few minutes of silent walking, he took a small leaf of paper out of his jacket. He handed it to James, who unfolded it and read the writing on it.

An address.

"Oh, Charles, you didn't. You don't even know this woman," James said.

"Neither do you, and yet I'm giving this to you." He reached over and pointed below the address. "There's a telephone number there as well."

James, whose eyes were transfixed on the paper, blinked, and then finally forced himself to look at his best friend. He stopped walking, Charles and the boys doing the same. "I don't understand."

"It's time, James."

"_Time? _Time for _what, _exactly?"

"You know what," Charles said, "and if you don't, I'll trust you to figure it out. The moment I saw you with that woman, I knew it."

"What? What did you know?"

"Why, James, you looked perfect together."

James was enraged then. He had never looked perfect with anybody but Sylvia, and he wasn't going to let a complete stranger take her place. His first thought was to see Peter's reaction, as he knew this would his him hardest, but it was George who said something.

"He won't, Mr. Frohman," he said, his voice wavering. Now, if James was anything like Emma duMaurier, (with all respects to the dead) he would have told George to quiet his mouth. But he didn't, and allowed the oldest boy to speak his mind.

"He's right," said James, crumpling the paper and shaking his head. "I won't and I never will. Children do not get involved with women. Especially after they have already lost two, one being irreplaceable. "

"You think about it, James. You'll change your mind, you've been known to." Charles nodded his head and tapped the brim of his hat, and continued down the path alone, leaving James with the boys crowded around him. He called over his shoulder that he'd see James the next day, and for some reason, this made the playwright throw the crumpled paper to the ground. He bit his tongue, and rubbed his jaw, embarrassed about his action, then began walking again, telling his boys to follow him. He doubled back, though, after a few steps, and bent down to take the paper back from the dusty road.

OoOoO

When the five returned home, James called Mary to confirm that he was indeed going with her boating, and told her that Charles would be coming as well. She, knowing that that would be the only way her ex-husband would come, agreed, and tried hard to sound immensely happy in order to keep him at ease.

James spent remainder of the time before dinner sitting in his study, rocking back and forth on the two back legs of his chair, looking out the window, holding the address and thinking, staring at his many stacks of paper. He finally recrumpled the address and threw it into the wastebasket, looked at it for a while in there, at the top of a full collection of crumpled paper, then abruptly got up to go downstairs to the dining room, avoiding the basket.

He used to have to tell the boys when dinner was, but they had been living with James long enough to know that at seven o' clock sharp, everyone must be down in the dining room for supper. And tonight, everyone was. In fact, knowing that their Uncle Jim would be agitated (or on the edge of being agitated) when he came out of his room, all four boys had already gotten themselves seated at the table, and Sarah and Emma were standing shoulder to shoulder, stock still, next to the kitchen door, their eyes only on Mr. Barrie. The scene surprised James, and although he knew that they might have thought that this would make him happy, it didn't in the least - it only made him uncomfortable. He sat at the head of the table without a word, fearing that an interruption of the silence would make everyone fall out of their chairs. As soon as the chair ceased movement, the housekeepers skittered into the kitchen and reappeared with the silver platters, which they set down nearest James, out of respect for him, and his touchy mood. (This also made him disturbed. He wished that they had put the platters in the middle of the table instead. He wasn't the only one eating, after all.)

Everyone began to eat once they had all received their meals, and as James was picking up his fork, he glanced at Peter for a second, but had to look back, as he saw the boy was staring at him. He lowered his utensil, and Peter slowly looked away and started to eat his mashed potatoes.

After a few minutes of ultimate silence, (the grandfather clock in the parlor could be heard from the dinner table) James couldn't stand it anymore, and fought his frozen brain to give him something to say that could result in pleasant table conversation. Desperate, he said the first thing that came to mind. A question would work - someone _had _to answer.

"What was it you wanted earlier, Michael?" He had been right - the sudden sound made everyone start. They all paused, and looked at James. Not only was the sound surprising, but the nature of his tone was as well: as soft and gentle as it always was.

"Jack said that he had a detention yesterday," Michael said promptly, but quietly. James looked at Jack. "George asked him where he was, and guessed a detention, and when Jack fidg-et-ted, he knew it was."

"You received a detention, Jack?" James said. He still hadn't taken a bite of his meal yet, nor had he raised his voice. Jack slammed down his fork, making everyone jump again.

"Michael, you little mosquito!" he said loudly.

"Jack, please be quiet, it's not necessary. I'm not angry."

But Jack continued: "You always have to tell everything!"

"If you ask me, you should have told Uncle Jim yourself," George said under his breath, his mouth in his glass, about to take a drink.

"Yeah? Well, I didn't ask you. And you're the reason this has started in the first place - if you ask _me, _you should keep your mouth shut!"

"I didn't ask you either!" George shouted, abandoning his glass without taking a sip.

"Boys!"

"So, tell me, Jack, why did you get a detention?" George said, leaning forward and dropping his own knife on the table. "Too intelligent for schooling? Think you know everything there is to know? Couldn't pay attention, had to stare at Carolyn Mundette's - "

"I said, shut up!" Jack's voice had risen considerably, and he was burning red, the tip of his nose a light shade of purple.

"Jack, there is no need for that!" James could feel himself shouting, feel himself acting like Emma. Was that a good thing? She was a disciplinarian, and he wasn't much of one, but needed to be in this instant. But he couldn't. Even his shouting was quieter than the younger Jack's fury. It was no use. This was not what he had in mind when he was desperate for pleasant table conversation.

"And what if I don't?" George said, tense. "Who are you to tell me what to do? I'm older than you, and you're only a sniveling little - little - codfish!"

"Won't the two of you just be _quiet?_" Peter shouted over everyone. Jack had stood and begun to shout something, but all eyes were on Peter when he spoke.

"What's _your _problem?" Jack said harshly, but calmer than before. Peter didn't answer, and when he didn't, Jack slowly descended back into his chair, his red face fading to pink. This was all that anyone needed, to know not to say anything more. James set down his fork, and buried his face in his hands.

OoOoO

Author's Note: I must have edited that last scene at least 50 times. I think I do fairly well with timing, and I hope that didn't erupt or end too fastly. I said it aloud with voices (hehehe) maybe 10 times, and it worked. I don't think it got too bad-angsty...I'd like responses! (On this, and on the entire chapter of course haha likes and dislikes, come on. Let's hear 'em.)


	4. Turn L, Turn R, Exit R ,He Sighs Ex,

All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary  
Chapter 4  
Turn L., Turn R., Exit R. _(He Sighs Exasperatedly)_

Author's Note: This was a fun chapter. I can't seem to get the story going - when I look at it as a whole, there's some good parts, but it doesn't seem contained in a story. The main themes are pretty much _Man With Music - _and Molly, who will get important to James. Again, they will NOT get very serious. More themes are Peter's problems, Jack's infatuation, and George's issue, which has been briefly introduced. In case you're having trouble following.

I finished _The Admirable Crichton _by JMB raising my amount of JMB works read to three - _Peter Pan, Little Minister, _and _Crichton. _I just now ordered _Dear Brutus _off of and have started _J.M. Barrie and the Lost Boys - _the biography by Andrew Birkin. People that love authors that do research will love me. Anyway, stop reading this dumb intro - read the story!

**BARRIEFACT: **During World War I, JM Barrie and his literary friends, Bernard Shaw, William Archer, GK Chesterton, (etc.) made a western film.

_Inside: _3 stories, 4 scenes, much frustration, Charles Frohman, trashpicking, and two conflicts.

OoOoO

_Friday, May 6th - Day of the first rehearsal for _The Man With Music On His Face.

Marjorie Simmons and Sylvia Namm walked down the sidewalk together, talking rapidly. They were only two of the many people in the crowd of London citizens who walked the streets in the morning, getting to their work places or commitments. They had planned to have breakfast that morning at the restaurant across the street from Lixon's Coffee Shop and Café, and had decided to walk rather than take a carriage, as it was a lovely day, and they hadn't walked lately. It showed: they were both rather homely women, but could afford tailored gowns and so disguising their large bodies with numerous frills, puffs, and netting. They were also, incidentally, the main pair of gossips in the city. They always seemed to be in the right place at the right time, and were ready to babble about any incident to any passerby. So, if you were living in London and were in the gossip circle, you might be called a Marjorie Simmons, or a Sylvia Namm.

They had both been in Kensington Gardens, these two fat old rats, when they had seen wealthy Mr. James Barrie crash into much-less-wealthy Molly Blennerhasset. They had seen them talk, had seen them smile at each other, had seen her try to shake his hand, and now, they had been sitting back and watching the news spread quickly through the town.

Today this is what they talked about, until they saw poor Mrs. Carroll walk down the street, aided by her husband, who was keeping her standing up and protectively guarding her bulging stomach. The eyes of Sylvia, who had noticed it first, grew wide at the sight.

"Did you know that's going to be their_ twelfth _child?"

"Is it really?" Marjorie said, intrigued. She was, of course, sure to pass this information on to someone else, conscious of it or not; no one really knew whether either of them even were, when they spoke of someone else's business to a stranger, or even a friend, for that matter.

"Yes! I was talking to Eva Dickonson the other day - she was friends with Emma du Maurier, you remember - God bless her soul - and she knows someone who knows someone who's good friends with them, and that's what she heard."

"Excuse me!" Sylvia, before she could respond, turned her head, to see James, a book clasped in his hands, shove past her with his head down. Suddenly Mrs. Carroll was a lot less interesting.

"Oh, look! I wonder where he's off to!" Sylvia wondered aloud, excitedly.

James was on his way to the _Duke of York's _for the first rehearsal of his play, of course. He was late - mostly because of the crowded streets, the loitering throngs of people in doorways and at intersections, and of course, the two fat old gossips. He knew Charles would be none too happy about his being late, and would lecture him about being on time to every meeting they had, no matter how important it was. He had to get the boys to school, after all, and that being his greatest priority, had to be taken care of first. Had he left as soon as he had awoken, he would have avoided the crowds and would have arrived before any of the actors did, but the boys, to him, were more important than any rehearsal, 2 minutes late, 30 minutes late, or not at all.

Charles turned when he heard the sound of the theater door opening echo off the walls of the majestic auditorium. He raised his eyebrows at the playwright's disheveled appearance as he watched his partner walk down the aisle, his script in hand. Charles turned to the cast, seated on the stage, and made a humorous facial expression, which evoked many chuckles.

"I'm sorry," James whispered to Charles, and set his script on one of the auditorium seats' armrests, and removed his suit jacket.

"It's quite all right, we have all the time in the world to rehearse - no need to start early - we could easily make this rehearsal four hours instead of three, taking your appalling tardiness into account." The producer gave James no opportunity to retort, and turned back to the cast professionally. James did the same, and when he did, made eye contact with the young man who was to play Zinschiel Barber, and saw that he was smiling. The playwright smiled back, and looked at Mary, who was staring vaguely at the balcony in the back.

"Now that our wonderful, dependable, pitifully tardy author and director is here, we may begin the rehearsal," Charles said.

"Thank you, my underpaid, low-esteemed producer and best friend," James said, smiling politely. Charles bowed and sat, satisfied, in the front row. "You didn't want a director," he said to himself, behind his hand, and watched James carry on the morning, his eyelids drooping more by the second.

OoOoO

It seemed like hours before Charles called a break. The play was difficult, and the actors were progressing slowly: Mary seemed to be able to fake a Scottish accent, but she sounded too fake, and so, James, not feeling right to tell her not to use it at all, though not being able to stand the wrongness of it, let the matter alone despite his now red knuckles that had become so because of his constant clenching them to hold back numerous comments that had built up in his mouth, but had remained in their place behind his pursed lips; John Harrow had had multiple opportunities to play his violin, but could only get as far as lifting his bow, as James decided to change the dialogue which came before every one of his cues; and, the actors seemed distracted by stage directions, so that when even standing in one place and reading through their lines, there were long pauses where they desperately searched for the non-italicized words written between the parenthesis, which they had to speak.

The only reason Charles had called a break, was because James had asked him to: the producer had had his arms slung over the chair in front of him, with his head down between his knees. When the playwright called his name, he rose his red face over the top of the back of the theater seat, tiredly, and called the break. Relieved, they all left the stage, or sat on it to read through their lines, and mark in pen where their speaking text was located in the confused jumble of directions.

James put his face in his hands and closed his eyes. His pupils, and the whites of them burned when making contact with the inside of his eyelids, and tears leaked out into the corners because of it.

"James," Charles said, tapping his partner's shoulder, and sitting down beside him. He looked up, hearing the noise, and then away again, to his script in his lap, and began adding still more stage directions in the margins and between the lines. Charles watched the pen, a look of extreme pain on his face, but continued nonetheless, when his friend didn't respond. "I'm not sure you'd like to hear this now, but Maude Adams is in town for a few months." At this, James looked at his friend.

"She was in _The Little Minister _at the _Empire_,"said James, "I remember going overseas to see it. She was a wonderful Babbie. And, I believe I talked to her at the after party at your home in the city - she was completely ecstatic to meet me in person."

"That memory of yours again - that's the Maude Adams I'm thinking of. She's going to be in London for a while; she called me from where she's staying, last night."

"Ah. Well, if she calls again, tell her I said 'hello', and give her my best, of course." James put a hand to his head and returned to his work, but was stopped.

"You'll be able to, yourself - I invited her boating with us."

The playwright sighed in response, and as a reflex, out of the corner of his eye, glanced at Mary, who was sitting in a seat down the row, whispering her lines to herself. "That's fine."

"You know, you'll be the only one without a date," Charles said, smirking. Both men were on the edge of extreme anger, and Charles, having already taken it out with his previous reminder, didn't say anything when James became angry first, and slammed his script shut, glaring at his producer, warningly. Charles looked at the script for a moment, pausing to lick his lips.

"Are you planning on writing any more in there? We seem to have" - he reached over to his own copy of the script, and flipped through it, showing the pages to his partner - "enough of them. Don't you agree?" The producer had a mocking shimmer in his eyes, and his face bore the look of someone who was intent on annoying the hell out of anyone who crossed his path.

James stood up, red in the face, and not amused in the least, trying to look threatening. He was very much unsuccessful at his attempt. "What are you trying to do, Charles?" Charles merely shrugged, got up, and walked down the aisle toward the curtain, behind which was a hallway that contained the door to the green room.

"James?" The playwright turned, still frowning. Mary disregarded it, and held her script in front of him. She looked at him, and continued timidly, "It's a question...on the Scotch." The playwright, now thoroughly infuriated, simply walked away, to talk to John Harrow about his fiddle.

OoOoO

Peter and Jack sat at their desks, both with their eyes fixed determinedly on the clock. Peter slowly closed his textbook without looking away from the contraption; Jack craned his neck and stretched his legs, ready to leap out of his seat. When the bell finally sounded, he did, nearly as fast as jackrabbit jumping clear of danger. Peter watched him leave, sighed, and gathered his things. He took his cap out of his book bag, shoved it on his head, and walked out of the room, heaving his bag onto his shoulder.

He kept his head down while leaving, as he usually did; he wasn't one to want to be noticed, and preferred to be left to himself during the school day: the product of being picked on mercilessly by the other children. He took a detour today, though, one that made him walk around the side of the school to get to the flagpole on the front lawn. It took a longer time, but was a much more deserted path. By the time he got to his and his brothers' meeting place, though, he saw that no one was there anymore. What were they all in such a hurry for? Jack had been first to leave without him, now his other two brothers as well?

Peter stopped, temporarily in a trance. He sighed shortly after, adjusted his bag better on his shoulder, and began to walk again, when he felt something hard rap the back of his head. He snapped it around, and then he heard it - laughing.

George wasn't here now, the boy was on his own. Three older boys, holding stones, advanced on him.

"What do you want, now?" Peter asked with confidence. He tried to show them that he wasn't scared - and as he thought about showing them this, he realized that he really wasn't scared, like he was the year before. The jeering from this group had grown very old by now. What was the worst they could do to him, anyway?

"We'll settle for loose change."

"I haven't got any."

"_I haven't got any," _one of them mimicked, and threw another stone, which hit Peter on the side of the head. "Your beloved Uncle Jim gave you three whole shillings this morning, didn't he? Far too much for lunch - and you brought your own to school, anyway. Who made it, Peter, your servants?" Peter merely ignored this, and turned around. He had hoped to go to the pastry shop after school with his brothers, with the three shillings, but now he knew he had to go straight home, and felt that his hope was foolish. Another stone hit his neck, and he turned back, to more laughing.

"I see," he said, angry now, and went straight up to the boy in the middle of the group. "You're only jealous because my family has money, and yours is living somewhere in the streets in a trash bin."

"Do you really think I'd let someone like you talk to me that way?"

"What are you going to do?"

The boy paused, narrowing his eyes. "Give me the money."

"I haven't got it anymore. I've given it to my brother, George," Peter responded easily. His face was straight, and his tone, stern. None would have argued.

"Fine then. What's this?" The boy stretched his hand toward Peter, but was swatted away. He raised his eyebrows, surprised, clenched Peter's hands, and reached behind him to draw his journal out of his book bag.

"Give it back!" Peter lunged for the boy, who quickly turned, and began opening the book. He read aloud, with mock seriousness.

"_May 1912, I lent my Uncle Jim my story today. I do hope he returns it to me with criticism. I would jump at a chance to improve - " _This was met by open laughter by the group, who had dropped their stones. The boy with Peter's journal pushed him into one of his friends, who held him tight, while the third dug the three shillings out of the pocket of his trousers, then allowed the second to push him to the ground. The eyes of the boy holding the book glimmered, now, as they set on a loose string near the binding. Peter saw this, and leapt at him, but was too late. The boy pulled it hard, and with that, the thread pulled loose of the pages, scattering many of them across the lawn, and allowing the wind to pick up the others. More laughter came from the group, louder than before. Peter crashed into him, bowling him onto the grass, snatched back the binding, and crouched to the ground to gather what paper he could, his cheeks red from anger and embarrassment.

"Because he's such a good person, isn't he?" The boy said, sitting up, his face still laughing. "Always does the right thing, don't he? Always follows the _law_?"

Peter glanced up. "Yes," he said, through clenched teeth, and stood, the remains of his journal in his arms. Not being able to take any more, he turned and began to walk away from the three, the brim of his cap down over his eyes, and his head tilted downwards.

"Of course, he is! He forged the will, Davies! Didn't you know that? He forged your mother's will!"

And in his mind, the statement stayed, burning into his skull. And, he walked home without stopping, back to his brothers and his Uncle James, with the tears in his eyes too tired of leaving so often, burning inside his head.

OoOoO

James left the theater without a word to Charles. He walked out with Mary, straight past him, without taking his eyes off of the woman in order to avoid his friend. This hurt Charles very much, and when he noticed he was being ignored, his brow didn't bend, but rather, dropped sadly. James had never ignored him before like that, less had he walked out of the _Duke of York's _without a 'goodbye,' or at least a 'good day,' or 'goodnight.' So, the producer stood, watching his best friend talk to Mary on the sidewalk.

"Charles is planning on taking a lady friend with him on the outing," James said, plainly, not wanting to go into details.

"Oh, that's fine. You'll be alone, then?"

"The boy's aren't "no-one."

"Yes, but I meant..." she trailed off, noticing his indifferent expression, looked away, and touched a hand to her hair. He looked briefly to Charles during this, and when he saw that he was staring at him, looked back to Mary immediately.

"In a few weeks," he said, rather hurried to make like there hadn't been a break in the conversation.

"Pardon?" She looked up, and rolled her script into a narrow tube, nervously.

"Have Gilbert ready to take the boat out in two or three weeks."

"Oh - yes. I'll tell him, and we'll call you for the date."

"That would be fine."

"Alright, well...goodbye."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, see you tomorrow."

The pair turned their backs to each other, and left in opposite directions, James, in the direction of Emma's house, and Mary, in the direction of Gilbert's.

When James arrived home, he found that the boys were not yet home. Perhaps they had stopped somewhere on the way, or had been delayed at school. He went up to his study, and sat at his desk, stared at his papers for a while, sighed, and began to sort through them, attempting to neaten up. He frowned at one sheet, crumpled it, threw it across the room, and heard, soon after, a sound that frightened him - an empty _thunk. _He looked up at his rubbish bin, and stood automatically. It was _empty._

_"Shite!" _he shouted, his heart hammering in his chest. He ran out of the room, and into the kitchen. "Who is responsible for emptying my rubbish bin?" he said loudly. Sarah nearly dropped a baking pan, and Emma tripped over her own feet, having to grab a counter for support.

"It was I, Mr. Barrie," Emma said, quaking, and regaining her balance. She and Sarah and barely ever heard him shout.

"Where did you bring it to?"

"Outside, to be collected." At this, James ran out the door to the street, where a man was beginning to dump the can into his collecting bin.

"Stop!" he yelled to him, and the man turned his head. James hurried down the long walk, and his hands struggled to open the gate. He told him to set down the can, and then promptly began digging through its contents. The man leaned against the wheel of his carriage, and watched, amused.

"Forget something?" James declined to answer to this, but kept looking. Where _was _that paper? He came across many crumpled sheets of his writing, but no small ones with addresses on them. The man, who had begun to get impatient, heaved himself into the seat of the carriage. James insisted that he should wait, and got his hands to work quicker. When he finally saw it, he let out a cry of triumph, which made the man on the cart look around the street nervously for onlookers - he saw nobody but a fat, snickering woman on the corner, who seemed to be out for a stroll. As soon as he saw her, Marjorie disappeared down another street.

"Thank you," James said, getting himself out of the bin, and holding out the paper. "I've found what I was looking for. Good day."

"Good day, sir." The garbage collector climbed back down, and emptied James's bin without further interruption.

OoOoO

"_He was digging through his garbage?_" Sylvia said, in disbelief, a giggle creeping up her throat.

"That's exactly what I saw. Goodness knows what he was looking for. Apparently he found it, for I heard someone yelp once I had gotten halfway down the street!"

"Apparently so!"

OoOoO

Author's Note: Hah - I had to get something else humorous in there. Review! Ta!


	5. The Rowan Tree

All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary  
Chapter 5  
The Rowan Tree

Author's Note: I do apologize to all of you kind people that this took so long for me to finish. I have been busy lately, and if I'm not busy, I'm not in the mood to write. I have chapter summaries written up to chapter 8, so hopefully I can write without so many pauses. So, without further adieu, the not-so-lengthy chapter 5. Be looking forward for chapter 7. Enjoy, guys! xox Love, MJ

P.S. Thanks again to Aimee and Danny for editing my Scots again. You guys rock. xox

**BARRIEFACT: **Arthur Conan Doyle was the only member of the cricket team James Barrie founded, The Allah-Akabarries, who could actually play cricket.

_Inside: _a flashback, and two, maybe three stories.

OoOoO

_"James!"_

_James looked up into the tree. In it, high above his head, was David, straddling a thick branch, and sporting vivid red juice on his chin, and that bright, though extremely mocking smile. It was an effortless smile, spread across his lips like good homemade butter. _

_There was a large cherry tree outside of David's school, at which James would run from home to, to meet his brother (their mother barely noticed he was gone) when classes were over. James always knew what time his brother would be done with classes in the afternoon, and would leave the house ten minutes early so he had time to walk to the school, and would be there when David appeared on the front steps. Today had been no different. He met him at the front, had taken his school bag from him without asking, and carried it to the tree. David climbed it, James sat on the grass, and looked up, waiting. He'd watch his brother intently, so as to not slow down the picking process. He always admired David for being able to climb a tree. Of course, he himself was able to, but his brother always seemed to have enough courage to get higher than James ever could, and always knew which cherries were best to pick. Besides, he looked better in the tree, better than the scrawny James. He looked, if possible, even more handsome, and so majestic; like a king; like he ruled the world. He climbed it and sat inside it gracefully, and delicately, as if he was meant to sit in a dirty tree for hours. James always looked at David this way, always, with such admiration, never disrespecting him, no matter what his real thoughts were._

_The cherry hit James square on the nose._

_"You have to catch it, silly!" David cried, laughing._

_" It wis aimed fur m' face! An' besides - I wasna ready!" James picked the fallen cherry up from the grass and polished it lovingly on the lapel of his jacket, then tucked it in with the other fruit. During this, David tutted._

_"You might want to get rid of the Scotch when we get home. Mother thinks you're speaking English when you're away from her, as well as around her." _

_"English is difficult. Am no nearly as wonderful as y' are, David." David shook his head, dismissing the compliment, and waved at a young girl who had just called his name._

_"What are you so busy staring at, anyway?"_

_"Jane Gregory's a michty lovely young lass, David."_

_David followed his brother's eyes to the small girl next to the young lady that had just called to him, and let out an amused, "Hah!" and didn't bother repressing laughter at James's comment. "Women are always trouble - that's what father says. He says he had the luck of a fisherman in Spring, finding mother."_

_"'Ow do ye ken? Dad's on'y hame 't nicht."_

_"I heard them talking one night, to each other, and that's what he said."_

_"Syne, Margaret Ogilvy's a michty lovely lass," James said, indignantly, praising his mother, glad to have the chance to._

_"Mum's only uncommonly wonderful. And, it's impolite, James, to refer to members of our family by their first names."_

_This is one thing that James didn't listen to David about - he disagreed and rebelled heartily, and called his mother whatever he liked. She wasn't concerned enough with him to attempt to change his ways - that's why David did._

_"Aye, David."_

_"Good. Now, catch this next one now, okay?"_

_"Okay."_

_The two picked for an hour more, and then David climbed out of the tree, told James that "that's it," and led the way home, James behind, carrying the cherries carefully, in his empty lunch sack._

_"It's impolite to stare at ladies when they're walking somewhere, James. They might just look up and see you and give you a hard cuff on the head. Remember that."_

_"I will, David. I dinna want the leddies no to like me." James nearly tripped on the road, and because of his younger brother, and the cherries, did David extend his arm to stop his fall._

_"Watch your footing, instead of the weavers, James." David glanced inside the window his brother was peering into, but then back forward, striving to set a good example. "You wouldn't want to crash into someone."_

_"The weavers do so fascinate me."_

_"They fascinate me too," David replied simply, and the two walked the rest of the way to the house in silence, David smiling to himself. He gave his little brother a pat when they were halfway._

_"Sara! Jane Ann, watch yer sister, will ye? The bairn's gang tae knock 'er 'ead on tha table. I needta get the claethes uff th' line." Margaret, a woman who looked just barely alive, and was that way because of all of her other young Barrie children, scuffled to the door with a basket, just as David and James were coming in. Margaret jumped out of the way, surprised._

_"Dominie, David! Ye gae me a start! Wha' did I tell ye aboot comin' in thro' the back?"_

_"We apologize, mother," David said._

_"Who's 'we'? Who ye got wae ye? James? Or did he walk hame frae th' park agin to-day?"_

_"Yes, mither, It's me," James said, creeping out of his brother's shadow, though not fully, so that Margaret still had to look behind him to see the other little boy. She smiled a bit at him, her wrinkles digging hollows deep into her face._

_"Hello, James."_

_"Good afternoon, mither."_

_"I picked cherries today, mother," said David, giving an enthusiastic smile._

_Margaret knew David was always the one to climb the tree._

_"Let's see, then! If I hae time, I'll try'n make a pie fur us!" Margaret said, delighted. David reached behind him, and James set the sack in his hand. The older boy handed it to his mother, and her face lit up._

_"O, they're lovely, David. Aye, they're beautiful. My boy, climbing ta th' top of th' tree!"_

_Jane Ann, bouncing little Sara and looking on, watched James, who was looking idly around the kitchen, and once he completed his assessment of the walls, went up the stairs quietly, and otherwise unnoticed. She looked pained._

_Jane Ann, after all, knew James was always the one to gather the cherries._

OoOoO

_Saturday, May 7th_

Charles arrived to a quiet _Duke of York's _on Saturday morning. He took a quick look out to the house, before ducking into his office. Quiet, how he liked it; all of the empty auditorium seats, which could not talk, which could not complain about their roles in a play; empty seats, which could not get angry with him and storm out of the theater with their ex-wives. Quiet stage sets, only half-finished. The carpenters were coming on Monday to paint and put things together, Charles remembered. He muttered something to himself, closed his eyes, breathed the rich smell of the theater seat linings, and mothballs, and retired to his office, which was, like the auditorium, quiet, but for the sound of his clock ticking timidly from the shelf, daring to disturb the producer's profit-mixed-with-endless-praise-fueled creativity.

He took off his jacket, draped it over the chair's back, and sat down, rubbing his fingers across the smooth surface of his desk, while smiling to himself. He looked at the far corner of it, at the backside of a picture frame, and his mustache tensed, as he reached forward to take it in his hand. Staring straight back at him were he and James, in the middle of Broadway together. The photograph had been taken a long time ago, when he and Mary had ventured to New York for their second time, together, a few months after their second wedding anniversary. James was only as tall as Charles because of his standing with back straight, top hat perched upon wind-blown hair; and Charles had his own off, and was bending down a bit in attempt to equal their sizes. They each had an arm round each other, with joking, laughing expressions painted across their faces.

Charles bit the inside of his lip, and set the frame down on a clear space in front of him, then, in an effort to ignore it, took out his script of _The Man With Music On His Face. _He finished page one, and was flipping to page two, when his head jerked up to look at the photograph again. He put a hand on it to turn the frame around to face the wall, and while looking at James's black and white face, heard it. Whistling. It seemed far away, and seemed to echo as if in a tunnel - and then it stopped. Charles furrowed his brow. _Am I going completely insane?_

He shook his head, deciding that he wasn't, and went to turn it again - the whistling came, as before. Charles stood up, withdrawing his hand, went out into the lobby, and crept to the door. The whistling stopped for a moment, and then - _singing. _He bit his tongue, straining his ears to hear the words.

_"Rowan tree, O, rowan tree. Thou'lt aye be dear tae me..."_

Charles raised himself haughtily, trying not to be embarrassed at his own unawareness.

_"Entwined thou art wi' mony ties o' hame an' infancy." _He stepped out from behind the curtains silently, squinted, and saw what he hadn't before - a little brown-black head poking up from the front row of seats. A page turned, and there was some humming, then more singing. _"Thy leaves were aye the first o' spring, thy flow'rs the summer pride. There wasnae sic a bonny tree in a' the countryside. O, rowan tree."_

The producer sighed.

_"How fair wert thou in summer time, wi' a' thy clusters white. How rich and gay thy autumn dress, wi' berries red an' - "_

"Are you serenading me?" The singing abruptly stopped at this, and Charles's words were carried out to the front of the auditorium, then seemed to thud to the ground, such as a drunken fly, when it reached James. He chanced a walk down the aisle, and sat next to the author. Neither man spoke to the other for a long time, until Charles began to twiddle his thumbs. This action always bothered James immensely, and it was one which he felt could only be stopped if he did talk.

"Saturday rehearsals are extremely foolish."

Charles snorted, but didn't stop his thumbs. "We'll have to meet at Lixon's again to agree on a new schedule."

James smiled. "I suppose we should."

Charles nodded, and then stopped. "James, that song you were singing..."

"My mother used to sing it to us. _On thy fair sterm were mony names, which now nae mair. I see but they're engraven on my heart, forgot they ne'er can be. My mother! Oh! I see her still, she smil'd out sports to see. Wi' little Jemnie on her lap, wi' Jamie at her knee. O, rowan tree. _It's nothing very special to anyone else."

Charles smiled, and pat his friend's back. "Do you ever think about your mother?"

"She was a wonderful person. But, I don't want to talk about that right now; Mary says that it's fine if you bring Miss Adams along."

The producer smiled, a little more excited than he had been. "Oh, did she?" He sat up in his chair. "I just talked to Maude last night, and gave her your 'hello'. She asked about you."

"And, what did you say?"

"I said you were well, and that I think this play's going to be a hit. If we get the rehearsals straightened out, anyway."

James nodded, paused, then spoke again. "I was here early this morning. I left the boys home with Porthos."

"That's good," Charles said, grateful, but uncomfortable about the fact that he had arrived after his partner. Another silence followed.

"I'm sorry, James."

James didn't need to be told what the subject was turned to. "No, I overreacted."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"I've been picking on you for sixteen years now. You had the right to overreact. But, really, James, that Molly - "

James tensed. "Don't ask me about that again."

"Why don't you call her? You still have that paper, don't you?"

James recalled the day before, in front of the garbage man. "No, I'm not calling her."

"I'll call her with you."

An even worse idea. "Heavens, no."

"Listen, James - think of the boys. They need a mother, don't they?"

"Yes, but that's completely beside the point. They don't want a new mother, they want their old one. And, I'm not ready for - and, frankly, don't want, any type of female companion. I've already tried, and it's just not for me."

"So you've given up, is that it?"

"Indeed."

"So you've quit?" Charles tutted, and James shifted uncomfortably at it. "My, my. James Barrie, a quitter?"

"Charles, you don't understand, and I'm not going to try and make you understand, because you're too stubborn to put an ear to it."

"I saw how you were looking at her."

"No, no."

"Yes! Ask her for coffee."

"No."

"Take her to Lixon's! And then, she'll come boating with us, and eventually - " Charles but a hand to his ear. "Are those wedding bells I hear? _Here comes the bride, all dressed in white!_"

James stood, smacking Charles on the back of the head, and walked toward the green room. "No!"

"Call her!"

"No!"

"James!"

"After rehearsal, Charles!"

The producer immediately jumped up, nearly tripping over a theater seat, ran to his best friend, and grabbed him in a bone-crushing hug. Mary walked into the auditorium during this, and looked at the pair suspiciously.

"What's going on?"

"He's going to call her!" Charles sang carelessly, and danced behind the curtain. Mary's face fell, and she kept quiet, save for when she spoke on stage, for all three hours after.

OoOoO

Once, when James was young, he had overheard, in the streets, two jolly old Scottish men talking. They were leaning against a fence, a wheelbarrow accompanying them. One was holding, and petting, a scraggly-haired gray cat. Both had dirty hats and dirty clothes. Their pants were ripped, the soles of their shoes were coming loose from the cracked threads, and they had scruffy beards with whiskers growing in all directions: North, South, East, and West. They didn't look like they had a penny to their names, and yet, they were still jolly old men - not complaining, but instead leaning against a fence, just talking to each other, like the world was just right.

James's family didn't have very much money either, and had to save and use as much of anything they had, as they could. Any penny that anyone in the family earned dropped into a mason jar that was kept on the mantle; but, they got along all right, and with money being difficult to come by when the town is small and not wealthy; when the man of the house has the only job, and when that job is that of a weaver's, they were doing better than most folks.

James had only been passing briefly on his way home from town, and had to strain his ears to listen, at the same time trying not to let on that he was listening, but he had caught what they were saying:

"Ta be 'n th' comp'ny 'f a beau'iful leddy 's th' on'y thing I need 'n life. I daurna ask fer muckle, ye ken tha."

"Ay, but, I'm sure 'f I 'ad th' chance, I'd ay ask ta be 'n th' comp'ny 'f twa beau'iful leddies!" After that, the two busted up laughing, parted, saying their goodbyes, the one man with his wheelbarrow, and the other with his cat.

James wasn't sure why he remembered that now, but this is what he thought about whilst walking with Charles.

"...she's a florist, and she should be getting out of work in about five minutes. If we're lucky, she'll be home when we get to the phone."

James took a moment to register the information, then said, "How do you know this, Charles?" He was now honestly a bit disturbed by his friend's wealth of information about a woman neither of them barely knew.

Charles grinned, triumphantly. "I met Marjorie Simmons in the park that day you met Molly, and set her a little task: to find out things about her that may prove...useful."

The playwright inquired no further. "It's impressive, really," he said, with a sigh, "that a large city like London could have such successful gossips." Charles nodded vaguely, and the pair proceeded to Emma's.

"You have the telephone number, don't you?" Charles said excitedly.

"Yes, I have it," James said, and closed the door behind him. Once he had gone to his study to fetch the paper, the two assembled themselves at the phone. Charles was the one to take a deep breath. James, expressionless, fingered the paper (which now sported an ugly spot from turkey fat from the trash) in his hand, and began to dial, while the producer rocked back and forth on his heels, smiling cheerily.

"Hello," James said into the phone, and Charles inched closer to the earpiece. "Is this Miss Blennerhasset? Yes, this is James Barrie - yes, hello. How are you?" A pause. "Oh, I see. Well, I'm sorry to call at such an odd - pardon? Yes, I'll hold." He turned to Charles. "She wants me to hold."

"I realize that," said Charles anxiously. "Ask her for coffee - "

"Hello. No, I've been at rehearsal all day. It's coming along all right."

Sometimes you had to lie.

"No, I just got home myself, I have a fr - "

"_No!_" Charles mouthed, eyes wide.

"Fr - French woman playing my lead role. Yes, she's stunning." The playwright shrugged pathetically, and Charles shoved his shoulder. "_Coffee!"_

"Very good, she's fabulous. Anyway, I wanted to propose. Something - I wanted to propose something." Charles bit his tongue. "Would you like to meet me for coffee some day - After eleven o' clock?" Another pause. When James brightened, Charles responded by nearly smiling his beard off of his face.

"Monday's fine. Tomorrow I have to go to Church, but Monday's wonderful. Lixon's? Alright, Lixon's it is. I'll see you Monday. Yes, thank you. Goodbye." James hung up slowly, and with a shaking hand. As soon as he did, he let out all of the air in his lungs and Charles immediately gathered him into another bear hug.

"I nearly lost my head."

"Well, you'd better hold onto it," Charles laughed, "you'll be needing it for Monday morning!"

OoOoO

Author's Note: Reviews are quite welcome, you know. (smiles)


	6. The Failure Of Success

All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary  
Chapter 6  
The Failure Of Success

Author's Note: I ended up liking this chapter a lot after I finished it. It did take a long time, and I am sorry, but I did finish it.

I was accepted to this Western New York Young Writers' Anthology, and I had the reception for it last night. It wasn't too big, only a few people were there, but I felt special, anyway. I read _With A Daisy In Her Hair _and...well, I hope people liked it. Anyway, I have nothing else to say, so, enjoy chapter six!  
xox Love always,  
MJ

**BARRIEFACT: **James Barrie's first novel was named _Better Dead. _When he was asked his opinion of it in later years, his reply was the title.

_Inside: _Two stories, and one flashback.

OoOoO

_Sunday, May 8th - The Day Prior To James's Birthday_

Church was always a serious affair. It was to be taken as the best time of the week, even though James still thought it strange that the Sabbath of the English Church was on a Sunday, instead of a Saturday - the day that he and his brothers and sisters would be dragged off to the town kirk to worship - which meant, ultimately, to sit still and try with all of your might to resist slumber.

James's family (as were many families in Kirriemuir, let alone Scotland itself) had been Presbyterian, and had gone to church regularly - and had continued doing so after James left for University, without him. He became busy then, and the velocities of his faith dwindled as each unacknowledged Sabbath passed him by. Once he got older, and his sister, Jane Ann had decided to put her dreams and ambitions on the back burner, where they would burn, die, and be blown away by the wind with her, instead of after her (as the legacies of many, of course, are carried on after their deaths), as she spent the rest of her life caring for her mother and taking the old woman to the kirk when she could feel her feet - he began going at least once or twice a month, always on Easter, and always on Christmas.

And now, he went to the English Church for the sake of, in memory of, and in favor towards Emma du Maurier. He'd remind the boys each Sunday (though reminding himself simultaneously) that it was the right thing for them to do. George once asked why he went to church every Sunday for someone who he was of no relation to, when he had only gone when he had had the time, after his mother died. James had merely shrugged in response and said he wasn't as busy at the present time as he had been then, which was good enough for George.

The real reason, though, was that James believed that a month of consecutive English Sunday Sabbaths accounted for at least (if not more) two Free Presbyterian Church Saturday Sabbaths, depending on the days, the month, the weather, and the mood of the month in question.

So, the morning of the 8th, James did as his own mother had done: dressed his boys in their suits, and took them to the church, with the promise that they could go swimming afterwards in the pond. They went, however, with glum faces, led down the street by James as they were every Sunday. They were each handed a program upon their entrance and took their usual seats in their usual pew near the middle of the room.

The introduction to the opening hymn started suddenly, as the congregation got to their feet. A gasp was heard from Michael, and he began to tug on James's sleeve sharply.

"Uncle Jim!" he hissed at him. James closed his program silently, and bent down. "It's the woman from the park!"

"What do you mean, Michael - ?" He looked up and around hopefully, but quickly looked down at Michael when he couldn't locate her on his own.

"There, Uncle Jim!" He pointed, and James saw her at last, and there was an excited fluttering in his chest when he did.

She was dressed in a nice light blue dress, which most definitely set her apart from the other ladies in the congregation: while her clothing looked like Summer, the other ladies looked like they were in the middle of Winter. She seemed, though, overly dressed for the occasion, but still very beautiful, as though this was the only time in the week that she dressed up. Her eyes sparkled, and her face was glowing, and she wore a pair of lacy white gloves on her hands. The other women had on dark gloves, and dark gowns. And, what with them all wearing the "four thousand skirts," each and every one of them looked like, in some way, shape, or form, a caricature of Emma du Maurier.

Not Molly. While everyone stood fanning themselves with their programs, she stood for the most part, unnoticed, looking at her own program while she quietly sang along with the organ. She looked as if the collection basket might pass her without a second glance, even if her attire _was _outrageously contrasting.

James, at this time, realized that he wasn't singing, so, began mouthing nonsense and finally removed his hat, forgetting to feel shameful about wearing something on his head in the presence of God. Only a few minutes after he started trying his best to blend into the crowd, the organ silenced and the congregation sat down - all but the preoccupied James, who required being tugged down by George, and at the same time, was being watched by both Marjorie Simmons and Sylvia Namm, who were sitting in the very front pew. They were both watching the scene behind them with interest, knowing precisely why James was acting the way he was, and smirked and snickered at his flustered display. They then turned, and continued to fan themselves.

Molly, luckily, hadn't seen the disturbance at all, and removed her bonnet, fixing her hair. Then it occurred to James - why wouldn't he want her to, after all?

So, here began the playwright's attempts to make himself noticed by Miss Molly.

James fumbled with his bible when the priest announced the page that he would first read from, and quickly found it. Once he began to read, James cleared his throat loudly, twice. The priest looked up long enough for the playwright to apologize, but Molly didn't move herself to face James with the rest of the congregation. Their eyes were soon averted, though, and the sermon continued as if there had been no disruption.

George looked away from his own bible. "Are you all right, Uncle Jim?" he whispered.

James shook his head, dismissing the question. He pointed to the opened page, indicating that he wanted George to continue to follow along, and looked again at Molly, two pews to the front of him, on the other side of the aisle. George did not obey, though, and kept his head turned to watch - soon with Jack, who followed suit almost instantly after. James did not notice this, and pursued his goal.

He slid his foot underneath a kneeler, lifted it up slowly, and let it hit the floor with a _thud _that echoed so that even he jumped. The priest, again, paused and lifted his head to look for the culprit that was disturbing the peace, but, when seeing everyone with their heads bent, scratched his wrinkled hand and continued to read. Jack giggled, and covered his mouth. He and George watched as the playwright glanced over to Molly again, but discovered that he had been, once more, unsuccessful.

James gave up for a moment, then began to gently tap the butt of his cane on the wood floor. He did this until Sylvia Namm turned her head around to face him, and smiled. She turned back when he stopped tapping, touched a hand to her hair, and followed along in her bible.

The priest stopped talking, and when the congregation closed their bibles, James snapped his own shut. Molly did not turn her head - only crossed her legs, and toyed with the ribbon on her bonnet sitting in her lap.

The fifth attempt came at Communion. As soon as his pew was dismissed to go to the front of the church, he hopped up and urged George, Jack, and Peter to follow him quickly. He folded his hands, and peeked around the arm of the man in front of him. Molly was almost to the front, already.

"_Molly!" _He whispered, and the tall man turned his head to frown. James apologized out of fear and shame, and gave up. The last thing he wanted was a fight in the church.

_James ran a hand over his hair, and looked in her direction. She was sitting alone in the front, waiting to go up to the pulpit to speak. When her time came, she walked up importantly, cleared her throat quietly, and began to read. The boy smiled, and leaned forward in his seat, nearly falling off of it, and hanging on her every word. Her blue eyes, her blonde hair - she was wonderful in every way._

_"I aim to get her," James said quietly, leaning over to his friend, who smiled. _

_James McMillan was a frail-looking boy, who jumped at every unexpected sound, and, like James Barrie, had no chance of getting any girl, no matter what her interests were. McMillan was also James's best, and only friend at Dumfries Academy. The two were always together, playing games, and acting out the short plays that James would write for their enjoyment. James had nicknamed his friend "Bobbin," or "Bobbie," as they often confused themselves when talking to each other._

_"What would Thomas Carlyle do?" was the other small boy's response._

_Their imaginary hero, Thomas Carlyle - what would he do?_

_The girl stepped down from the pulpit, and the minister replaced her quietly. The entire congregation remained silent, taking in the words, meditating on them. James and Bobbin watched her sit down intently, and when the minister began speaking his own words, the congregation closed their books. James snapped his own shut, then looked at Sarah for her response, but there was none._

_Church ended, and James pulled Bobbin up by his sleeve, and dragged him to the door, but they were greeted before arriving there, by a bustling throng of women. James peeked around one._

_"Sarah!" he called, and tried to push through. His vision was blocked momentarily by a very tall man in front of him, and when he could see ahead again, found that she was walking towards the street, with another boy, who belonged to the other church, on her arm._

"Molly!" He tugged at George, who pulled his brothers along down the aisle after him, and reached forward to touch the woman's sleeve. She turned, and when she saw James struggling, walked to the door, and waited for him to reach her. When the five escaped the confusion, she smiled.

"I didn't know you went to this church," James said.

"My family has gone to this church since my sister and I were children. She's buried in the cemetery here."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I have friends buried here as well." Molly nodded her condolences, and glanced at the boys, knowing the story, which, by now, was crawling with rumors, about James, and Sylvia Davies.

She looked back to James, and smiled. "You were very loud in church today," she said.

James turned instantly red, and Jack and George exchanged amused glances. "Yes, well, the heat was making me uncomfortable, that's all. I've always said that they cram too many people in that kirk."

Molly turned slightly red, hid her smile, and shifted some. "Well, it was nice seeing you here, but I have to get home, I'm sorry."

James was secretly crushed, but tried not to show it. "Oh, that's fine. I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes - I was actually going to call you to tell you that I'd be by the theater on my way to Lixon's from work, so I'll meet you there, instead."

"All right. I'll see you there, then."

"Goodbye, James."

OoOoO

James broke off another piece of bread, snapped it into the water, and lifted his eyes to watch two squabbling ducks fight for it. George mimicked James's action soon after, and the two ducks moved on to fight with a new-coming enemy. James smiled, but still didn't lift his head. He looked down at the bread in his fingers, and fiddled with it. He saw George out of the corner of his eye, sitting next to him on the bank of the pond, watching his other three brothers fool around in the water on the far side of the pond. Both onlookers were still dressed in their Sunday clothes. James licked his lips and sighed.

"Why don't you join your brothers?" He knew the answer, and George's shrug wasn't needed. James shook his head. "You boys," he said. "If you were girls, I would have to remind you about not growing up, but boys...especially you four, you're just fine on your own." He was merely expressing his hopes.

George threw a piece of bread, and looked at James. "I can't join them, anymore, though, Uncle James."

"Oh?" The playwright didn't move his head, but gave up more of his bread as well.

"I've forgotten how to fly, Uncle James." He watched his friend play with the bread crusts in his hands, and pressed on to try to get through to him. "I've...I'm growing up."

"Of course you are. How old are you now, fifteen? Jack's nearly fourteen, Peter's nearly thirteen, Michael's seven. You're all growing up."

"I don't want to grow up."

James smiled, more to himself than to George, who happened to see it. "I see I've impressed you, somewhat."

"You have."

"Everyone has to grow up, George." He finally lifted his head, but still did not look to his side. "As much as we deny it, it happens, and it is, indeed, the worst part of our lives."

It was George's turn to lower his head. "I'm sorry, Uncle Jim."

"Oh, there's no need to be sorry. Actually, I'd known you'd be the first, simply because, you're the oldest. When your father died, did you feel the need to be the father of the family?"

George nodded. "And when my mother died, I felt like I had to be both parents - because I'm the oldest."

"Aye. It's only natural."

"Were you the eldest in your family, Uncle James?"

James hesitated. "No, I was in the middle. There were so many of us. My mother died, actually, after the first day I was on my honeymoon with Mary. We had to leave for Scotland when I heard she was very sick, and was asking for me from her bed. I think it was confirmed, then, to leave our subject, mine and Mary's bitter feelings toward each other. Confirmed, because, even though we'd just been married, she'd already begun to have little periods where she was annoyed with me, and some things I said and did utterly disgusted her...even then."

George had to smile. "You haven't had much luck, Uncle James."

"Aye, The first leaves me, the other dies. God only knows what will happen to Molly." He smiled meekly, and looked at George.

"Do you love her, Uncle Jim?"

"No, and I won't ever." He threw a piece of bread forcefully, and it hit one of the ducks' bills. It shook its head and complained loudly, and even more so when one of his enemies scooped it up from below him.

The eldest Davies boy, though confused as he was, kept quiet. Hadn't he just seen his Uncle Jim try to gain attention of the lady in church not two hours ago?

The subject was then dropped.

"What's Peter like at school, George?" James asked, watching the boy he talked of, who was laughing at himself for going to the deepest part of the pond unintentionally - the quarter of it that went over all of their heads. James said that that was because before the pond was filled with water, that was where a baby dinosaur slept. When Michael asked why it hadn't been filled in, he said because the clay underneath was impossible to remove. That was good enough for Michael, though he didn't know how there could be clay in the ground.

"He's quiet, mostly, when I see him. Jack would be able to tell you more - they're in the same class together."

"Does he have any friends?"

"No," George said. He didn't sound very sad - it was only a known fact.

"Doesn't he talk to anybody?"

"Me, and Jack, and when he sees Michael."

"I see."

"Uncle Jim!" Peter called. James turned his head. "Jack dared us to go in the deep part!"

"Come, George." James stood with his equal-heighted sidekick, and made his way to the other three boys. "Did he? Well, I'd like to see Jack do it first."

"That's all right, I can see it from here," Jack stated confidently.

"Of course you can," said James, smiling.

"Go on, Jack. Are you afraid?" urged George.

"Not at all. I'm not afraid of anything."

"Then go, brave knight, and leave all others in your wake!" called James.

This seemed to heighten Jack's spirits, and he gave a fearless nod before walking toward the underwater hill. When it became too deep for him to set his foot down, he treaded water, and nearly reached the other side when - he screamed. The three in the peanut gallery jumped, and watched Jack swim back.

"Something touched my foot! It reached out and grabbed my foot!" James furrowed his eyebrows. "Do you think it was the dinosaur, Uncle Jim?"

"The dino - Michael!" James looked where Michael had been, and felt the breath leave his lungs.

"Michael!" George yelled. He threw off his jacket and stepped into the water, swimming down to his brother.

"Can he swim at all?" James called to Jack.

"Michael? No, he can't swim! We kept him in the shallow parts!"

James nearly asked whose responsibility it was to be watching their little brother, but it was no use. Besides, he was the father figure, and it was, after all, his responsibility.

George tried, at first, to find Michael blindly, but he had to open his eyes to see. When he did, they began to burn from the algae, and the pain slowed him down. He realized what he was doing under the water, and forced himself to get to his brother faster. When he spotted him, he took his little arm and brought him up to the surface. James was relieved to see the both of them emerge, both coughing, Michael on the verge of tears. He went to them and brought the little one to the grass. George stumbled out and followed him into the house, Peter and Jack tripping after them.

This was James's third worry about the boys. Peter had been mercilessly teased, George had grown up, Michael had drowned. As he led a towel-wrapped Michael upstairs, he looked at Jack and wondered what would be next. Trying to abandon that thought, James tucked Michael into bed, and rang Sarah and Emma for tea. When the two mugs came upstairs, George refused his and offered it to Peter, who took it with shaking hands. Michael, however, didn't move at all, save for his breathing. James set the mug on the night stand, and the four sat with the little one for a while, Peter drinking his tea, and George shivering. Finally, Michael opened his eyes to look at James, and spoke.

"Pasty," he said.

"We should have some," said James quietly, taken aback by the sudden noise from the boy. "Didn't you go to Gilmer's the other day, Peter?"

"No, Uncle Jim," Peter answered into his mug. This was the last thing he wanted to talk about.

"I gave you the money, didn't I? or, did I forget?"

"No, Uncle Jim," he repeated. Peter lowered his mug. "Jack, George, and Michael all left school without me. And...the money was stolen."

Everyone stared at Peter, then James scratched his neck, and everyone looked at him.

James, though, looked at Jack. "Why did you all leave?" he asked. Jack blushed, and opened his mouth to speak, but George saved another one of his brothers in the same hour.

"It was my fault, Uncle James," he said. He had found Jack and Carolyn together at the flagpole that day, and had rushed him and Michael home. All three had forgotten about Peter, but Jack was the one put on the spot at the moment. George knew that James had enough on his mind to add another thing. So the eldest brother decided to save Jack the grief this time (but only this one time - he, as everyone in the house knew, ended up with the bad end of the deal after every other issue was resolved).

Peter looked at George in awe, and muttered something to him, but James only stared at George. He recognized the heroism - something was going on. After all, he knew the situation - he'd written something like this before. His own characters, Gavin and Babbie, had been caught together while a score of soldiers were looking for the woman. Babbie forced Gavin into helping her save herself by lying to the soldiers. Only, in this real-life situation, George was acting the hero again, saving Jack voluntarily. Just like in the story, though, Gavin had opened his mouth to talk, but was cut off by the gypsy woman before he could utter a word.

James sighed, and decided to play along. "Well, thank you for your confession, George, that was aye the right thing to do," he said, without thinking. George bit his lip, and only nodded. "I'm going to go...get myself some tea, then." The playwright attempted a smile at Michael, and exited the room, closing the door gently behind him. He put his back against it, and let himself slide to the floor. Why did George have to lie to him? He was sure that the boys knew that they could tell him anything - he wouldn't dare to, or have the heart to, punish them harshly.

He was doing something wrong, though, he _had _to be. What else could make his George, his beautiful George, lie to him? Then it came to him. He knew only one possible reason for all this. It was all he could find for an answer, and it was simple.

He had been a bad father.

His chest throbbed when he had the thought, but it was the only thing that could explain everything that had occurred.

And, as if that wasn't enough, Peter still knew something James didn't even know that he knew. The playwright had, indeed, forged the will of Sylvia Llewelyn Davies. James had whisked it away so quickly when he had found it, that he was able to make his own version, fit to his liking, before the official reading of the will. Sylvia had clearly written "Jenny," who was one of the family's close friends, but after careful handiwork with his pen, James did what he wanted to be done, because he couldn't stand to be without his boys, without his inspiration, without the four true loves of his life. He loved them, yes, not romantically, but in a way only a father could, or someone better than a father could love - he loved Jack, George, Peter, and Michael - in the way of Peter Pan.

Pan's love is a love more complicated than that of a confused woman who cannot let go of her own unfortunate love, for example, that of her drunkard husband. It is a love so inexplicable that if the best of medicine men tried their hands and their minds at deciphering the mysterious code of it, their quest would surely end in graciously giving their lives for the work in order to spare themselves of the horridness that had infected them in trying. There is truly no accurate way of putting any words together to describe this love; it's simply accepted by the most faithful of believers. This confused sort of love was James's love, in its purest definition, however cluttered with nonsense it may seem. Somehow, it was simple to James, made complicated only by those around him. If everyone knew this love, maybe the playwright wouldn't have had to get his boys by force.

He had written "Jimmy." Sylvia had begun to call him that, after he had developed his own pet-name for her out of her middle name, Jocelyn. It was the name he secretly reserved for himself, and only referred to her in that manner in letters and often in his journal. No one else knew of it, so he was satisfied. He had gotten the chance to share something with her that had no risk of being taken away, because of its clever lack of being known.

Today it seemed upside-down, turned on its side, and mixed together. The boys were the sturdy cart, and James was the taunting pothole in the road.

OoOoO

Author's Note: I am very glad that I decided to jump out of bed at midnight and finish this before the morning. I am very much surprised at myself. Hope you all liked it! Reviews are quite welcome!


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